It Was War
by MockingVenus
Summary: A short history of nearly nothing.


I give to you a short history of nearly nothing. Historically inaccurate. Feel my pain.

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**It was War**

The rain fell in streaming beads of white. All was silent, save for the pounding of blood in each man's ears. Red birds desperately beat against their cages of bone to liberate themselves from the constant threat of bullets. They may have been able to hear the bullets cascading around them, but no one could remember it. Nothing mattered. It was war.

All around them was death. The ground itself was death. Upon the slurry of uprooted grass and mud they strew bodies, some eyes open, some shut. In places the earth had turned red. Bitter, bitter red. The blazing signs beneath corpses would not be ignored. They had no choice but to walk upon the dead. Their black boots raised streams of blood as they ran. Try as the rain might, the red prevailed in it's glorious pigment. The skies were death. Bleached with white, the clouds consumed any hope for blue. Thunder ricocheted off to eardrums to recklessly pulsating hearts. Lightning screamed from the depths of the clouds pulling souls to the brink of insanity. No one could tell whether the spontaneous blasts were lighting or the constant hail of bullets, all except for those who were shot. The air held the essence of mortality; grey foggy streams, ignoring all around themselves. The smoke, from weapon and fog alike, danced around the desperate men. It was war.

No one had time for hope. Hope never even occurred to them. Irises lurched in each direction waiting for the next bullet to pass. The herald of cannon fodder triumphed over all noise. Deafening blasts challenged the thunder itself. Some screamed. Some prayed. Others fought, minds far to numb to even register the eminent danger. It was war.

Two men on the field. Two young men. Eighteen and twenty-five. Two young men. The younger of the pair had an army surrounding him, protecting him-all that he stood for. The older had no one. In this foreign land, he had no one. In his home country he had someone -coincidentally the man presently pointing a gun at him, but here he had no one.

Freedom. The younger man could feel it. So close. Liberty. One shot away, it was all he had to do. For years he had been held captive in his own land. He raised his gun. His own brother the captor. His hands shook. He had to do this. _Give me liberty or give me death._ The words echoed callously in his head. Never again would he be possessed. Freedom or death. Freedom or death. "Stand down!", he shouted over all his surroundings. The tears on his face camouflaged by the omnipresence of the rain.

The elder's response was to bare his teeth. Land, his precious land. His brother no longer a person. Blinding rage fueled his wrath. The insolent colony would pay. How long had he been with the colony? Had he raised him this poorly? It didn't matter, _it_ wasn't his brother anymore. The musket aligned itself. America was his property, he had every right to defend what was his, no matter what the cost.

The quivering hand of the younger began to droop. He had made his choice long ago. Freedom or death. Never together, yet never apart. Arthur's death would be Alfred's freedom. Alfred's death would be Arthur's gain. Never together, yet never apart. His jaw trembled. "Take aim", he commanded his men. On cue, they raised their bayonet laden guns to the Brit. Alfred stared at the man before him, trying to make any connection he could. If Arthur didn't give in, only one would leave the battle field.

Breath ragged, hand ever firm, eyes blind with rage. Arthur's eyes burned into the American, but refused to make eye contact. It was too late for that. Only once did his eyes move. It was to see the line of guns suddenly raised to him. Ire. This was his. No one else's. Only one person would leave the battle field.

The younger's vision blurred from rain and lamentation. His gun suddenly became firm in his hand. His jaw rigid. Lowering his brow he shouted again "Take aim". The men around him steadied their guns. A gun shot sounded.

Rain pounded furiously against the inhabitants of the field for daring to step into it's realm. The ground quaked from the falling of bodies. Stark red littered the haze. Arthur had been the one to shoot. He forced his eyes open to see if the shot was accurate.

Alfred froze. Utter shock. The man to his left fell forward, blood ejecting from the hole in his head. Arthur had shot at him. He knew all along that someone would die, but the reality of the possibility that it could be him crashed down upon his shoulders all at once. Eyes dilated.

He had missed his shot. The idiot before him stood unscathed. Feverous rage overtook his senses. The boy before him stood in shock. He charged, bayonet leading.

The American barely understood what had just happened, let alone what was going on now. All he saw was the blonde running at him full speed before _clink!_ Both men gasped.

The dirt was saturated in red. Metal had hit skin, had hit muscle, had hit bone, had hit lung. The boy gasped, struggling for air. With every breath the pressure in his chest increased. His wide blue eyes stared vacantly, still in shock, to Arthur.

The Brit pulled his bayonet out victoriously, letting the American hit the ground. Internal cries of victory racked his skull until he heard the a garbled version of his name.

Shaky breathes were all he could manage. His broken rib cage splintered haphazardly into his already punctured lungs. "A...Arthur..." He stared at the black boots before him.

The world crashed down around him. Head snapped down, green eyes split open wide. Before him was his brother. No longer an _it_, or simply his colony. His brother, laying in his own blood, clinging to his boots. He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around the boy.

"...Arthur...", the American's hazy eyes drifted close to Arthur's. Blood ran down his chin as he tried to spit up words.

"Alfred". He sobbed like a child, holding his brother in his arms. His face pressed into the American's blood. "I'm so sorry..." He felt ready to vomit.

One shaking hand reached up. Alfred knew he would die soon; but, it was what he wanted. Freedom or death. The hand almost made it to Arthur but fell short. With every ounce of his being, he tried to give words of comfort, but he couldn't speak anymore. Any air he forced up through his wind pipes was quickly corrupted by the blood he choked on.

In his arms, the boy died. The rain pounded. The thunder raged. His heart slowed to nearly stopping. He had lost his brother. It was pain. It was real, and as hard as he tried not to think so, it was fair. It was war.


End file.
